creatures. Heavy Benson saw letters come
and go in the day, and now the young gentleman was off and out every
night, and seemed to be on wings. Benson knew whither he went, and the
object he went for. It was a woman--that was enough. The Saurian eye had
actually seen the sinful thing lure the hope of Raynham into the shades.
He composed several epistles of warning to the baronet of the work that
was going on; but before sending one he wished to record a little of
their guilty conversation; and for this purpose the faithful fellow
trotted over the dews to eavesdrop, and thereby aroused the good fairy,
in the person of Tom Bakewell, the sole confidant of Richard's state.

Tom said to his young master, "Do you know what, sir? You be watched!"

Richard, in a fury, bade him name the wretch, and Tom hung his arms, and
aped the respectable protrusion of the butler's head.

"It's he, is it?" cried Richard. "He shall rue it, Tom. If I find him
near me when we're together he shall never forget it."

"Don't hit too hard, sir," Tom suggested. "You hit mortal hard when
you're in earnest, you know."

Richard averred he would forgive anything but that, and told Tom to be
within hail to-morrow night--he knew where. By the hour of the
appointment it was out of the lover's mind.

Lady Blandish dined that evening at Raynham, by Adrian's pointed
invitation. According to custom, Richard started up and off, with few
excuses. The lady exhibited no surprise. She and Adrian likewise strolled
forth to enjoy the air of the Summer night. They had no intention of
spying. Still they may have thought, by meeting Richard and his
inamorata, there was a chance of laying a foundation of ridicule to sap
the passion. They may have thought so--they were on no spoken
understanding.

"I have seen the little girl," said Lady Blandish. "She is pretty--she
would be telling if she were well set up. She speaks well. How absurd it
is of that class to educate their women above their station! The child is
really too good for a farmer. I noticed her before I knew of this; she
has enviable hair. I suppose she doesn't paint her eyelids. Just the sort
of person to take a young man. I thought there was something wrong. I
received, the day before yesterday, an impassioned poem evidently not
intended for me. My hair was gold. My meeting him was foretold. My eyes
were homes of light fringed with night. I sent it back, correcting the
colours."

"Which was death to t